got me under her green thumb

no, i’m not necessarily deconstructing your world in my mind

when my gaze lands too cold.

in fact, were i to be able to trace you, always you and

the razor blade edges of your shouting voice,

a vice-like clasp of hands, never with mine,

nails digging half-moons, you and him,

you and never me,

i’d be able to say i’ve got a fragment of you.

the morning fog crawls along the awakening bay

as i drive to SFO, where you await.

the rainbow colors of pride taunt me in the mist,

red and orange and yellow and you will never want me and

all i can think about is the way your cheeks

are dusted in pink when you smile,

the way your eyes shine like you're surprised

at the laugh escaping your own lips.

i met a woman---silver-grey hair neater than mine,

she was draped,

body with worn shawls for warmth

and eyes with years, decades, a lifetime.

her wisdom could not be countered, i thought--

yet she told me, valleys at the corners of her eyes,

her smile softening as though i would fear,

that i look at you, green with envy.

it couldn’t be, i muse,

because if i were green and you were you,

you’d look at me with that light in your eyes

that you usually reserve for him, for your flowers,

because only then,

i could blossom into something beautiful.

(i’d blossom bathed in your light)

you’re beautiful, surely you know that.

there would be a place for me in your life, however minute,

perhaps a fond glance in the morning;

i’d greet you like the edelweiss,

and you’d tend to me, to us, simply because you’d love to.

it’s not that i’ll wilt without your presence

saguaro, carnegiea gigantea, i am

or maybe just a houseplant; i’ll be a peace lily

but no matter how self-subsisting, you’d cultivate

to keep us that way, rather than i,

myself, out of loneliness or bare necessity.

you know, if i were green,

greener than the veins of our wrists, viridian,

my exhales could be your life’s breaths; we would never drown.

the tides could sweep us out, carry us, swallow us whole,

yet with tongue against teeth,

parted lips and a common breath,

swaying like the seagrass, we would flourish

our skin forever fresh-bitten,

(maybe call me posidonia against the cheek)

as long as our limbs stayed intertwined.

see, love, if i were green and you were you,

you’d run your fingers through my ivy hair—deliberately,

but not the angry plow of metal

and never lines like the napa vineyards, methodical

where my skin, the earth, overturns

no, want you to touch me like i’m made of petals,

delicate, almost untouchable

don’t hope it’s because i’m fragile, as i’m not.

i don’t need even a brush

of your goddamned fingertips, and yet

i’d let you take me apart.